


In Your Dreams

by midwich



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Denial of Feelings, Dreams, Dreamsharing, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Sex, dumb idiots in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-06 23:38:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19073020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midwich/pseuds/midwich
Summary: On Monday, Hanzo dreamed of flying. And as it turned out, so did McCree.For months now, Hanzo and McCree have been slipping in and out of each other's dreams.No one can understand why. After all, everyone knows that dreamsharing only happens very rarely, and almost always between lovers—and it's obvious that Hanzo and McCree can't stand each other. So what the hell is going on?





	In Your Dreams

On Monday, Hanzo dreamed of flying.

The sky was cloudless, a broad and endless sea of blue. Tiny villages dotted the land below him, cradled in the heart of the valley, the spaces between them lovingly carved into intricately terraced rice paddies. Minute figures were scattered across the flooded landscape, laboriously hunched over with their baskets of seedlings. They screamed and cowered as his shadow passed overhead.

But the creatures of the earth held no interest for him—his domain lay in the heavens.

He turned his keen eyes southward, towards the mountains that rose in the distance. They were shrouded in a chill fog, which dampened the trees and shrubbery jutting from their jagged slopes.

As he flew, his long, sinuous body cut through the air as smoothly and freely as water. And as he climbed to higher and higher elevations, that same fog began to coalesce around him, turning the once-familiar world strange and hidden. But not for a moment did he falter. He only flew higher, knowing and trusting that once he reached the peak, the mists would surely clear before his eyes, and at long last he would be staring directly at the light of truth, the face of the sun—

Hanzo snapped awake.

His left arm was throbbing. The dragons twisted and coiled beneath his skin, in paroxysms of joy at the memory of flight. He stared up at the ceiling for several long minutes, blinking away the blue expanse behind his eyelids. Gradually, the dragons fell silent. He rubbed his arm to bring some feeling back into it.

Then, he rose for the day.

He tied his hair back, ran through several aikido kata just to stretch out his stiff muscles, and then got dressed in loose, comfortable clothing and left his rooms.

The hour was early enough that the kitchens were almost deserted—except for McCree, who was the only one at Watchpoint who seemed to sleep even less than Hanzo did.

McCree was slumped over at the main table, staring into the depths of his coffee as Hanzo walked in.

Hanzo made sure to step loudly to announce his presence, and to avoid startling the other man, as he had done many other times in the past.

When McCree finally dragged his gaze up to meet Hanzo's, his eyes were distant. They acknowledged each other with a silent nod.

Hanzo started to prepare his tea. He didn't bother asking McCree to share what was clearly weighing on his mind—their present, begrudging truce was a significant improvement over the earlier days of open hostility, but it did not extend that far. Not nearly that far. Despite whatever Hanzo himself might have wished.

He felt eyes on the back of his head as he put the kettle to boil and retrieved his loose leaf tea.

"Had a strange dream last night," McCree said suddenly, as Hanzo pulled a cup from the cupboard. McCree's low, sleep-roughened voice was a shock in the silence.

He must be truly desperate to confide in me, Hanzo thought. "Is that so?" he said, because McCree seemed to be waiting for a response. "What did you dream about?"

"I was flying," McCree said.

Hanzo didn't turn around. "I thought that was a fairly common one," he said, without much interest.

McCree hummed. "Yeah, I've had dreams about flying before." His stare seemed to grow inexplicably heavier on Hanzo's back. "Never as a dragon, though."

Hanzo stilled for a moment, then finished preparing his tea. "That does sound unusual," he said evenly. "For you, at least," he couldn't help but add, a little haughty. He turned around with his cup of sencha and joined McCree at the table. 

McCree made another humming sound, low in his throat. "You ever dream about flying before? As a dragon?"

"Often," Hanzo said.

He left it at that, and McCree did not press any further.

McCree did, however, sit there for the entire time it took Hanzo to finish his morning tea. That heavy stare of his occasionally drifted over to focus on Hanzo's face, before moving away, back to some point in the distance.

Both of them pretended that McCree's coffee hadn't long grown cold in his chipped mug.

-

On Tuesday, McCree dreamed of smoke and steel.

They were chasing him through the city streets. How long, he wasn't sure. Long enough that his breath came fast and shallow in his chest. Long enough that he hurt all over. But he couldn't stop, because if he stopped he'd be caught, and once he was caught he'd either be shot dead or locked away—still couldn't say which he found worse.

Where the hell were the others? Damn them, they'd probably already taken the car and left him for dead. He cursed as he ducked down every dirty side street and shortcut he knew, but with every turn he made, his pursuers seemed to gain on him just a little more.

His legs burned and his head pounded and god, he just wanted to stop. He—

Fuck. A dead end. He'd taken a wrong turn somewhere, fucked up somehow. And he knew instantly, down to his bones, that there was no way out. He'd seen a thousand alleyways just like this one, crumbling brick and broken glass, trash spilling out of the bins—and not a soul in sight. It was the place where people like him went to die. They wouldn't find his body for a week, at least. He was going to die here.

No, that wasn't right, he suddenly realized. Because he had a gun in his hand. Solid, cool, and unyielding. He knew the feeling well—had known it for as long as he could remember. Knew it better than his mother's face and his father's voice.

He clenched tighter, revelling at the ache in his knuckles. Euphoric now that he knew he was going to live. He took a deep breath, just to taste the smell of grease and gunpowder on the back of his throat. He was going to live.

There were distant shouts as his pursuers closed in on his location. They thought they'd finally trapped him in this dead-end alley. But they were wrong. Because with a gun in his hand, _they_ were the ones trapped in here with him. He felt a smile split his face. Raised his six-shooter and— 

McCree woke up.

His heart was calm, but his right hand was clenched as tight as a vice. Numb with the memory of clutching the grip of a gun.

Slowly, painfully, he loosened his fist. There were four half-crescents on his palm, neat in a row and bloody red. He stared at them, briefly flexed his fingers, then shrugged when he found the marks ached but barely interfered with his grip.

Time to get up.

He heaved himself out of bed with a groan. His back ached more than he liked to admit these days. He got dressed—leaving his serape off, because it had started growing warm out—and shoved Peacekeeper into his belt.

The lights automatically flickered on as he moved down the empty halls of the residential wing of Watchpoint. The half-crescents itched on his palm, refusing to be forgotten—so halfway on his path to the kitchen, he changed his mind and headed for the shooting range instead.

Although the sun was not yet out, it was pretty much his usual training time anyway. McCree preferred to train alone, and the shooting range was almost always deserted before dawn. Because no one else at Watchpoint ever got up early as he did—with one occasional exception.

"Morning," McCree said.

Hanzo didn't respond right away. He finished shooting the final two arrows in his quiver—both dead center, of course—before turning to McCree and giving a curt nod. His eyes were bruised. Restless night, McCree thought, though he didn't say so out loud.

He didn't care nearly enough to ask (or so he told himself), especially when there was always a risk he'd get snapped at. These days, he treaded carefully around Hanzo, never knowing for sure what casual remark would transform the man's usual indifference into icy fury. Unlike in the past, it was no longer McCree's intent to push Hanzo until he snapped. Far from it, if he was entirely honest with himself. 

McCree grabbed his practice rounds from his locker and loaded up a warm-up training sim one lane over from Hanzo's.

Wordlessly, the two of them went through their morning programs. At this point, McCree knew Hanzo's routine nearly as well as his own. At first, he'd hated when their hours overlapped—resented Hanzo's distracting displays of skill almost as much as his own preoccupation with it—but over time, Hanzo's presence had grown familiar enough to practically become part of the background.

Hanzo finished first, by virtue of starting his session early. He started disassembling and cleaning his bow just as McCree was loading up a second rapid-fire practice drill. But after packing away his bow and training arrows, Hanzo didn't immediately leave as he normally would.

Instead, McCree could see from the corner of his eye that Hanzo had taken a seat on a bench along the sidelines. He stayed there, silent and watchful as a gargoyle—though admittedly a damn sight prettier—as McCree finished his last few drills.

Then, just as McCree fired his final shot, rolled his right shoulder to ease the pleasant ache, and then pulled up his numbers for the session—Hanzo finally spoke.

"How old were you when you first picked up a gun?"

McCree glanced up from the holo display, towards Hanzo's direction. He raised an eyebrow. It was unusual for Hanzo to initiate conversation.

"Don't remember how old exactly," McCree said. "Real young, though."

Hanzo cocked his head, dark eyes half-lidded as he considered McCree's words. "Who first taught you to shoot, if not your parents?"

McCree frowned at Hanzo. "What makes you think my parents weren't the ones who taught me?"

Hanzo's eyes widened and his jaw immediately clicked shut, like he'd said something he hadn't meant to.

"Though for the record, they didn't," McCree continued, still frowning. "Neither of them were ever around much. Don't think I ever told you that fact though." An unpleasant thought occurred to him. "Did you get your hands on my file?" 

Hanzo shook his head. He still looked faintly startled with himself.

"Lucky guess?" McCree tried, skeptical.

Hanzo shook his head again. And then he looked down. It took McCree a split second to realize Hanzo was looking at his belt holster, where he'd returned Peacekeeper after finishing his training routine. Hanzo stared at the revolver for a long time, a faint crease appearing between his brows.

"McCree," Hanzo said. "May I hold your weapon for just one moment?"

McCree was so surprised that he nodded—and immediately regretted it afterwards. Nonetheless, he thought he did a good job of concealing his apprehension as he handed Peacekeeper over.

Hanzo weighed the revolver in his hands, then turned it over, examining the detailing along the barrel and the individual scratches on the grip. He handled the gun like he knew it well, although McCree knew for certain that this was the first time Hanzo had ever held it.

After a few minutes, Hanzo offered it back to him grip first. But even after McCree took the gun away, Hanzo kept his empty right hand outstretched—like he was making an offering. Or a challenge.

McCree almost wasn't surprised to see the four bloody half-crescents lined up along Hanzo's right palm. Like he'd been clenching his fist tight as a vice.

Like he'd been dreaming of clutching the grip of a gun.

-

On Wednesday, Hanzo dreamed about his brother in two different forms.

To be more specific, he dreamed about the nightmarish fight that had transformed Genji irreversibly from one form to another. Dreamed about standing over the broken body afterwards, his blade dripping with blood and gore. 

When McCree woke, that memory still painted vividly in his mind, he staggered to the bathroom and threw up into the toilet. He rinsed his mouth vigorously with tap water afterwards, the way he could not rinse his mind. Then, kicking on his boots, not bothering to throw anything on top of his sweats, he left his own rooms and urgently traced the path to Hanzo's.

He knew the way only by theory—had discreetly learnt the location early on for the express purpose of avoiding the area—but he managed to find the room easily enough.

McCree only had to knock once before Hanzo opened the door.

Hanzo did not look surprised to find McCree standing at his door at four in the morning—which was more than enough to confirm everything. Confirm that McCree was not losing his mind. Or at least, not alone in it.

Hanzo’s face was pale and his hair was plastered to his sweaty forehead. His breathing was shallow. He and McCree looked at each other for a long, weary moment.

"We've gotta find a way to make it stop," McCree said at last. And Hanzo nodded. For once, they were in perfect agreement. 

"We will go to Dr. Zeigler," Hanzo said.

Angela often worked late into the night, which meant she tended to sleep in later than the two of them even under normal circumstances—let alone four in the morning.

They drank to pass the hours waiting for her to wake. Hanzo with his sake and McCree with his whiskey, sitting across from each other in the dark of the kitchen. Not speaking for hours. Not wanting or needing to. Not after that dream.

Once it was time, they rose in unison and headed to Angela's office, waiting in the hallway directly outside.

When she finally came around the corner of the hall, yawning, with a stack of papers and a strong-smelling coffee in hand, she did a double take at the sight of them. Then, she looked closer, frowning as she took in their exhausted, partially inebriated state.

"You'd better come inside," she said.

It took a long time before she started believing their story.

"Are you absolutely sure?" Angela was still asking, an hour later. They—or rather, McCree, since Hanzo was being his usual silent, uncommunicative self—had already repeated the whole thing several times by now.

McCree strongly suspected that Angela would've thought they were joking, if it weren't for the fact that the concept of him and Hanzo teaming up to play a practical joke was maybe even more unbelievable than the idea that they could be dreamsharing.

"Well, you two have all the symptoms of chiazmophrenia," she said eventually, with obvious reluctance. "You just don't fit the patient profile at all. That's what I don't understand. The most basic common feature across all patient pairs is that they trust each other unconditionally."

She clicked and unclicked her pen, a nervous tic McCree had known her to have since forever.

"Ninety eight percent of pairs who develop the condition have known each other for at least a decade." She clicked her pen again. "Ninety two percent consider each other their primary next of kin. Eighty seven percent are married or otherwise intimately involved. Most of the remainder are family."

"We get it," McCree said. "Me and Hanzo've known each other about a year at most. We ain't family, we ain't next of kin, we ain't fucking—" he ignored the way Angela wrinkled her nose, "—and we certainly ain't married. But the fact is that we've been dreamsharing since last Monday, and—"

"Longer," Angela interrupted. "Much longer."

"Pardon me?"

"Chiazmophrenia manifests itself long before the patients are even conscious of it." Another click of the pen. "You two have already been dreamsharing for months—you just haven't realized it until now."

McCree and Hanzo exchanged identical looks of shock and dismay.

"Fine," McCree said, shaking his head. "We've been dreamsharing for months then." He grimaced at the thought, and its implications. "Point I was getting at is—how are we supposed to make it stop?"

Another click. Angela's expression was grim. "As far as I'm aware, you can't. There's no known treatment or cure." She flipped through the e-documents on her tablet, shaking her head. "There have been rare instances—and this is all anecdotal, mind you—of the condition gradually fading over time, usually when the people grew less intimate. But for most pairs, it lasts for the rest of their lives."

"No," Hanzo said. It was the first time he'd spoken since entering her office.

McCree and Angela both turned to him. "Sorry?" Angela said.

"Chiazmophrenia does not last for the rest of both lives." Hanzo's voice was calm. "It lasts until one of the two is dead." He gave McCree a pointed look.

Angela reared back, horrified, but McCree only snorted. He'd recognize that deadpan tone and expression anywhere—he saw it every time Hanzo chose to inflict his poor idea of humor onto the nearest unsuspecting victim.

McCree tried to elbow him, unsurprised when Hanzo twisted nimbly out of the way. "You threatening me now, ya bastard? Thought we were past all this already."

"That was before you started intruding on my dreams," Hanzo said coolly. "As if my every waking hour was not already enough."

McCree burst out laughing. "Well, 'scuse me for just strolling into your head uninvited then."

"At the very least, you should have called ahead," Hanzo said. His expression of carefully cultivated disdain made McCree laugh even harder.

Angela looked between them, despairing. "How did this even happen?"

None of their other teammates could understand it either, once they found out.

And they did find out. Very quickly.

Although Angela never did speak of their unique situation to anyone else—citing patient confidentiality whenever she was pressed by overly curious teammates—neither McCree nor Hanzo made the slightest effort to conceal it. What was the point?

That very morning after they spoke to Angela, they wordlessly split off outside of her office. Hanzo wandered off elsewhere—McCree didn't ask—while McCree himself returned to the kitchens.

When Fareeha asked him over breakfast why he looked so rough, McCree didn't even hesitate.

"Oh, nothing much—just realized that I've probably been dreamsharing all my deepest, darkest secrets with Hanzo for the past couple months."

Fareeha had snickered in response. "Yeah, I'll bet you have," she said, dismissing him at once. McCree had merely smiled and continued his breakfast.

McCree got that exact same reaction from about ten or so people that day. But soon enough, they realized he was being dead serious.

Just like with Angela, it was mostly due to Hanzo's word, not McCree's.

Although the others could easily believe that McCree would joke around like that, the idea that Hanzo would help to corroborate the joke apparently stretched the limits of the imagination.

Which was rather unfair, McCree thought. People assumed Hanzo's flat, aloof manner meant that he was always serious—when McCree knew for a straight fact that that was untrue.

The only person who believed McCree instantly—without Hanzo's confirmation—was Genji.

They ran into each other in the hallway that day, shortly after breakfast.

"You don't look so hot, cowboy," Genji said, the quip hiding his genuine concern. "Rough night?"

"Yeah," McCree said, staring at Genji. With his visor off, scarred face exposed, McCree couldn't help but remember that vivid image of Genji's body—bloodied and broken on the floor. Was that what Hanzo still saw every time he looked at his brother? No wonder he'd had such a hard time settling in at the beginning.

"McCree?" Genji snapped his fingers. He was staring back at McCree with real concern now. "What's wrong?"

McCree scrubbed a hand over his face, then sighed. "I've been dreamsharing with your brother for a couple months," he admitted. "Did you know he still has nightmares about what he did to you?"

Genji cocked his head, his eyes suddenly narrow and laser-focused. It made him look remarkably like Hanzo, and it took some effort not to fidget under that familiar, half-lidded stare.

"Yes," Genji said eventually. "I already know about the nightmares. My brother is not one to easily forgive himself for his failings."

McCree weighed his next words carefully. "I thought the two of you mostly got along fine now."

Genji shrugged. "We talk. We squabble. We eat together. Sometimes, we even like each other. But so long as my brother continues to punish himself, part of him will always be spending time with me out of guilt and obligation, rather than his own desire. Part of him will always find my company painful. And I do not like to be the cause of his pain. Not anymore."

McCree let out his breath in one big whoosh. "Sounds like he should be the one hearing this, not me. No offense, I mean—I suppose you've tried it already."

"None taken," Genji said absently. "You are right. I have already tried many times to speak honestly to him. But it has been a long time since my brother trusted the words from my mouth." He gave McCree a slow blink, as though suddenly seeing him for the first time. "Perhaps you could speak to him in my place."

"What?" McCree gave a helpless laugh, before he could stop himself. "If he doesn't trust you, what makes you think he would trust me?"

"The two of you have been sharing dreams, have you not?" Genji smiled. "However unwillingly, you have seen into his unconscious mind, and he into yours. That must mean for something."

McCree realized Genji was serious. Dread immediately pooled in his stomach. "I—Genji, I can't talk to him for you. Not about this. I just can't."

"You can and you will," Genji said breezily. Already committed to the idea.

McCree shook his head, more frantic now. "I'm serious, I can't. He hates me." Genji gave him such a flat, unimpressed look that McCree immediately amended, "He used to hate me, I mean. Anyway, there's no way he'd ever listen to me. I'm sorry, but I—"

McCree was abruptly cut off as Genji grabbed a hold of his collar.

Genji's dark eyes were suddenly wild and furious in his face.

"Jesse McCree, you will not waste this gift," Genji hissed. His grip tightened, choking McCree just a little more. "Do you know what I would give, to have just a fraction of what you do? To be able to let Hanzo freely into my head? To make him finally see the truth of my forgiveness for himself? I—"

Genji's expression shuttered, and he slowly let go of McCree.

"I would give anything for that," he finished quietly. "But Hanzo and I are long past the point of ever developing chiazmophrenia. Even before the fight, we were never so close. Not nearly enough for that." Genji looked away, blinking furiously. "Apparently, even _your_ relationship with him already has more trust than mine ever will." He fell silent.

McCree had felt many things since finding out about his dreamsharing with Hanzo—anger, fear, disgust, shame, frustration—but this was the first time he had felt guilty.

Ah, fuck it, he thought.

"I'll try," McCree said. He reached out and put a hand on Genji's plated shoulder, a little awkward. "I can't promise he'll listen to me, but I'll talk to him." There was a pause.

Genji's head snapped up. A brilliant smile was now fixed on his face, without a single hint of tears. "Great! Thanks for promising to help, McCree! Let me know how that goes." And then he dashed off, before McCree could even begin to react.

"No take backs!" Genji yelled, right before he turned the corner and vanished from sight.

McCree stared down the hall for a long time after Genji was gone—then, he rubbed his face and cursed the sneaky bastard. Of course. It had to run in the family.

-

On Thursday, McCree dreamed about trains, and their destinations.

They'd gotten cocky by the fourth heist. The target was a little riskier than what they'd normally go for—but after three hypertrains, they thought they were immortal.

Everything had gone to shit so quickly. He gritted his teeth, face mashed into the beautifully carpeted floor of the train compartment as a security omnic tightened its grip on his neck. Half of the passengers were still in hysterics over the rounds he'd fired before the omnics took him down. The other half were watching like it was a free show.

"I've heard about these guys," he heard a voice say. He turned his head slightly so he could see who was talking. The man noticed him looking and sneered. "Deadlock scum," the man spat. "You know where you're headed? You're going to rot in jail, just like you deserve."

He didn't respond, too distracted by the man's glossy black suit. It probably cost more than all the clothes he had ever worn in his entire life, combined. He made careful note of the man's face, just in case he got the chance.

And he did. Ten minutes later, as the train was passing through another tunnel, the EMP finally went off properly—like it was meant to the first time.

"About fucking time, Ashe," he muttered, as the lights in the compartment all fizzled out and the security omnics simultaneously collapsed, no more than useless hunks of metal. He ignored the renewed screams of the passengers as the cabin fell into darkness, some trampling each other in their panic while others stayed cowering in their seats. He wriggled out from under the deadweight of the omnic pinning him down, then yanked his gun off the floor and straightened up. Even in the flickering dark of the cabin, even through all the chaos, he could see the man whose face he'd memorized suddenly go all pale and fearful. From across the compartment, he shot the man in both knees when he tried to run. "Not so smug now, are you?" he laughed. "Where'd you say I was headed again? Where was that? Say it for me one more time, honey." He let the man plead for his life a bit before getting bored and shooting him in the face.

The others arrived a couple minutes later at the completely deserted compartment to find him whistling as he examined himself in the reflection of a window. The suit looked even better with splashes of red, he thought. Shame about the holes in the knees, though. "Stop messing around," Ashe barked. "Let's grab the cargo." He followed after the others, making sure to step on the man's stripped, cooling body as he left. This job was gonna make them so fucking rich. And then, there were all the jobs they could do afterwards. The possibilities were endless.

He'd always known he was meant for great things—

McCree sat up in bed, lungs heaving.

"Fuck," he said emphatically, covering his face. Gradually, his breathing steadied but the flush did not fade from his face. There was a tight knot in his chest that refused to ease.

He waited in the silence of his room, head in his hands, already resigned to his fate.

Five minutes later, there was a single knock on his door.

He stumbled over and opened it to reveal Hanzo. Hanzo’s hands were clasped behind his back and his hair was down. He did not look flawless and composed as he usually did, only tired and a little anxious. The fluorescent light of the hallway cast the shadows under his eyes in stark relief. “May I come in?” he asked.

McCree stared at him a long moment. “Sure,” he said at last. Before he could change his mind, he stepped back to let Hanzo into his rooms for the first time. McCree shut the door behind them and turned the light to the dimmest setting.

He could sense Hanzo’s curiosity, but the other man didn't give his sparse room more than a cursory glance before pulling out the chair from the desk and taking a seat. McCree collapsed back onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

For a while, the only sounds were the low hum of the air conditioner and the slow, even pace of their breathing. Only ever so slightly out of sync.

Hanzo was the first to speak. “Do you want to talk about it?”

McCree grunted. “Not really.” 

“Okay.” Hanzo fell silent again, seemingly content to sit in that hard wooden chair and watch McCree brood.

Eventually, McCree broke. He propped himself up on his elbows so he could squint at Hanzo through the gloom. "You saw everything. Didn't you?

Hanzo met his eyes unflinchingly. "Yes," he said. Then, quietly, "I am sorry."

McCree gave a sudden, harsh laugh. "What do you have to be sorry for? I saw yours and you saw mine, right?"

"It is not the same," Hanzo said. "My tale preceded me and you have always known it, from the very first moment that we met. This was something new to me. Something you would have likely never chosen to reveal, not now or for the entire rest of our—" Hanzo gave the slightest pause, "—relationship." 

"Yeah, well, it doesn't make for the best dinnertime conversation," McCree said tersely.

Hanzo gave a slow blink. "No, I wouldn't imagine so." He pitched his voice slightly higher than usual. "Oh, McCree-san, please do tell me about the time you robbed your fourth hypertrain and shot that innocent man dead—it's easily my favorite one." His voice was so grave and earnest that McCree couldn't help but laugh again, less harsh this time but with an obvious note of hysteria. He covered his face, shuddering, trying to calm himself.

Hanzo waited until McCree had settled back down before he added, "I _am_ genuinely interested, though. What was the cargo, if you don’t mind me asking?"

McCree sighed. "Weapons. It was always weapons." He rubbed his beard. "Think it was heavy pulse rifles and fusion cannons, for that job."

Hanzo gave another slow blink. "I have seen the fusion cannons on Miss Song's mech. They are a considerable weight."

"Yeah. Was partly why this one was a bit above our pay grade. The other reason was the higher level security system—it needed a larger EMP than we were expecting."

"And how did you manage to escape with such heavy weaponry, once you’d disabled the system?"

"Well, the initial plan was for B.O.B. to move the cannons. But he's an omnic, so we had to find a way to get him onto the train after the EMP had already gone off. But at this point, the train would be going at almost four hundred miles an hour, so our plan was—"

Under Hanzo's quiet attention, the words came spilling out. It was probably the most McCree had spoken of Deadlock in over a decade. Occasionally, Hanzo would interrupt with a question, or a deadpan comment that made McCree laugh. But never once did he pass any judgment.

Slowly, the knot in McCree's chest loosened. 

"I just wish I figured it out sooner," McCree said, about an hour later.

At some point, Hanzo had migrated from the chair to the edge of the bed. McCree tried not to look in his direction too much—it was dangerous thinking about Hanzo and his bed in any capacity.

"Figured what out sooner?" Hanzo prompted, when he had paused for too long.

McCree startled, then shrugged. "A lotta things, I suppose. Wish I figured out that having no money wasn't nearly as bad as having no principles. That I was running with the wrong crowd. That I was wasting my life robbing hypertrains and trafficking weapons. That if I had any sense at all, I'd realize that I wasn't headed anywhere better than a locked cell—you know the story of how I almost ended up in one."

Hanzo cocked his head. "But in the end, you chose Blackwatch, didn't you? And then its successor. You chose right."

McCree grunted. He felt Hanzo's eyes burning on the side of his face.

"You should give yourself more credit. It is not easy to drag yourself out of such a pit and make something of yourself." A pause. "You are a good man, now. That is what matters."

McCree turned his head. Hanzo met his eye easily.

"No offense," McCree said flatly. "But I didn't expect this much sympathy from you. I mean, you're a lot closer to the other side. We stole from people just like you."

Hanzo gave him a dangerous smile. "That is not the case, I assure you. You would not be here today if you had stolen from people just like me."

"Fine," McCree laughed. "But you know what I mean. How can someone like Hanzo Shimada sympathize with an angry, too-skinny street rat from New Mexico?"

Hanzo looked almost surprised by the question. "McCree," he said. "We may have had very different upbringings—"

McCree snorted. "I'll say."

"—but I understand very well how it feels to be stuck in place, with nowhere to go. No way to move forward. No destination in sight."

McCree's throat closed up. Even with the dreamsharing, it was hard to believe that Hanzo had seen so easily into his heart.

Meanwhile, Hanzo was still a mystery to him. At this point, he’d seen through Hanzo’s eyes, and his dragons’, and yet he was still no closer to knowing the right way to act. The right things to say.

"Hanzo," he blurted. “Genji told me to talk to you.”

Hanzo sighed. "Of course he did." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Did he ask you to convince me of his forgiveness?"

"He—well, yeah," McCree said, taken aback.

"Do not trouble yourself," Hanzo said. "I already believe him."

"Sorry, what?"

"I believe him," Hanzo repeated, rolling his eyes. He sighed again. "It is Genji that doesn't believe me. He thinks I still doubt his word, when that has never been the case. Genji cannot lie to me to save his life." Hanzo winced at his own phrasing, but McCree hardly noticed.

He was feeling very confused now. "So you do know that he forgives you," he said slowly. "But Genji says that you still punish yourself anyway." He hesitated. "And you still have those nightmares."

"Please, McCree," Hanzo said, slightly scornful. "You know just as well as I do that forgiveness from others is not the problem." He looked away, taking a harsh breath. "The problem is forgiving yourself."

McCree sat up.

He reached out, slow enough that Hanzo could twist away if he wanted—but he didn't. So McCree wrapped a careful arm around Hanzo and pulled him closer. "I know," he said. “I do know.” It took a moment before Hanzo fully relaxed into the embrace.

After a minute or so, Hanzo drew away.

He cleared his throat. "I suppose Genji will be giving you grief over not fulfilling your duty of 'persuading' me," Hanzo said.

McCree weighed his next words carefully. "Actually," he said. "I think Genji would just be happy enough to realize that you do actually trust him."

Hanzo made a soft, involuntary sound. "I have already told him time and time again. He is too stubborn to listen."

Runs in the family, McCree thought.

"Then I'll tell him for you," McCree said. He tapped the side of his forehead and winked. "I've seen into your head, so he has to believe me."

Hanzo frowned. "But you could also be lying to corroborate my story."

"Well, no one seems to believe we're even capable of cooperating." McCree shrugged. "So I think it's a fair shot."

"Are we?" Hanzo asked.

"What?"

"Capable of cooperating," Hanzo said.

McCree paused. He gave a thoughtful hum. Tugged his beard. "I don't know, Hanzo. You tell me."

Hanzo's mouth curled up, eyes deep and dark enough to swallow him whole.

"Get some rest, McCree."

He closed the door silently as he left.

-

On Friday, they fucked slowly and lazily in the scorching heat of day, when the sun was highest in the sky.

McCree wiped away the sweat beading on his forehead for the umpteenth time. Hanzo's air conditioner unit was still broken. They really should've gone to his own room instead but hadn't quite been able to make it that far. He rocked his hips forward again, the tight slide into Hanzo's body a little easier after the second time.

Hanzo's eyes were closed, his expression drowsy and serene. He was tugging slowly, almost absently on his cock, only half hard. His stomach and chest was still striped white from the previous round. He tipped his head up and mouthed against the side of McCree's jaw—then kicked him in the lower back with a heel, light but insistent. McCree laughed. He took the hint and pushed forwards, till Hanzo's knees were nearly to his shoulders, and then slammed into him with renewed vigor. Hanzo made a punched-out sound, his head dropping back and his hand speeding up on himself. McCree hissed as Hanzo's body tightened around him, burning hot, and rocked more forcefully against the added resistance. He felt everything through a feverish haze, every sensation softened and intensified at the same time.

"I love you," he whispered. Hanzo's mouth curled up as he looked back with dark eyes half-lidded.

"I love you, too."

McCree moved to kiss him with almost painful tenderness. Just as their lips met—

McCree woke up.

(Across Watchpoint, Hanzo did the same.)

McCree was so hard it ached. He stared blankly at his ceiling for a moment before he groaned. Of all the things to dream about when Hanzo now had a direct line into his mind. He really had the worst luck—it had already been weeks since the last one, and he'd been convinced they had stopped at this point. Or at least, he'd been praying they had, if only so he could avoid this exact situation. But the real stinger was that this one had revealed _everything_ at the end. Everything that had been simmering under the surface for months. Everything that he'd been trying to deny, because he knew he didn't have the slightest iota of a chance. All of it had been laid out, right in the open, and Hanzo was no idiot. There was no way McCree could possibly play it off as straight-up physical attraction. In short, he was fucked. 

He swore colorfully.

What could Hanzo be thinking at this moment?

He stayed in bed for at least half an hour. He didn't want to leave his room, but eventually the not knowing grew too painful. He got dressed and headed out. His heart sped up as he neared the kitchens.

Hanzo was already there, an untouched cup of sencha growing cold before him. His head snapped up as McCree walked in.

Hanzo’s expression was wild and terrified for a moment before he was able to visibly compose himself.

"Good morning," Hanzo said tightly.

"Morning," McCree said, heart sinking. He put on the coffee. Once it was ready, he sat across from Hanzo at the table.

He did his best not to stare. It was difficult, with that image still branded across his mind of Hanzo spread out on a bed, striped in white, pulling at his cock—

"I'm sorry," Hanzo said abruptly.

McCree swallowed his disappointment. He'd already known that Hanzo didn't feel the same way, but it still hurt to hear.

"Nah, I should be the one saying that," McCree said wearily.

Hanzo shook his head. A single, sharp jerk. "You have nothing to apologize for," Hanzo said. "You can't help how you feel."

It was good that he wasn't mad, but the man was really just rubbing it in now. "No, I really can't," McCree said roughly. His shoulders drew tight around his ears. "This ain't gonna make things hard between us again, is it?"

"No, certainly not." Hanzo looked almost offended. "Never. Why would you even think that?"

McCree slumped in his chair. All the tension went out of him at once. "Just didn't know what to expect," he muttered. "I never know what makes you mad. You've always been a complete mystery to me." He glanced up at Hanzo, expecting to see scorn, or annoyance, or indifference—but certainly not shame. He stared.

Hanzo was flushed right down to his neck, expression mortified. He closed his eyes briefly. "McCree," Hanzo said, sounding incredibly pained. "Do you really, truly believe I could be so entitled? If so, I regret anything I have ever done to give you that impression."

McCree tried several times to parse Hanzo's words, all unsuccessful. "Pardon me?"

Hanzo gave an irritated huff. "I am disappointed that my feelings are not reciprocated, yes—but I would never begrudge someone the right to their own feelings. Our truce is not conditioned on you doing everything in your power to please me—"

"Say that again," McCree interrupted.

Hanzo blinked. "Our truce is not conditioned—"

"No, not that part," McCree said impatiently. "What did you mean by your feelings not being reciprocated? What feelings?"

Hanzo froze for a moment. Then, he was suddenly furious.

"Are you seriously mocking me right now?" Hanzo snapped. “What more can I possibly do to appease you? I have already apologized for subjecting you to my dream—it was an unfortunate loss of control but entirely unintentional, I assure you. I will do my utmost to ensure it does not happen again."

McCree had no idea what was happening anymore. "Your dream?" McCree repeated blankly. "I thought it was mine."

Hanzo stared at him like he'd gone mad. "Why in the world would it be yours?"

"Because I've had about a hundred others just like it," McCree choked out, unable to stop himself. "Hanzo. Did you really mean it? What you said at the end of the dream? Because I did." Breathlessly, before he could think twice, he said it again—but for real. "I love you. I swear to God, I do. I have for ages. I don't know how or when or why it happened—but it did."

Hanzo covered his face and made a raw, pained sound. "We're both idiots." His face was turning red again.

McCree found himself grinning. "I've already confessed it all. Now you gotta say it."

Hanzo shook his head in his hands. "You already know how I feel," he said, muffled. "You heard it in the dream."

"Yeah, but I wanna hear it from your mouth for real. Say it, Hanzo," McCree said eagerly. "Come on, say it, honey, please—"

Hanzo groaned. "Fine, you insufferable man—I love you, too. And I have for several months now." He dropped his hands from his face and pinned McCree with an irritated look. McCree beamed.

To his delight, Hanzo's mouth twitched, and then curled slowly upwards as well.

How long they sat there in the dark, smiling at each other like idiots, McCree couldn't say. 

But eventually, Hanzo did break the silence. "It might interest you to know that my air conditioner actually _is_ broken," he said, deliberately casual. "And it has been for about a week now.” 

"Must be rough," McCree said. "Especially since it’s been getting real warm out." He raised an eyebrow. “As you know, mine is still working perfectly fine."

"Hmm." Hanzo gave a slow blink. "I would not want to stroll in uninvited." 

McCree grinned. "Would you like to stay the night?"

"Yes," Hanzo said. "That would be most appreciated."

They left their mugs in the sink, and the kitchen in darkness.

-

On Saturday, they did not dream at all. They stayed awake, whispering secrets and stories late into the night, tangled in each other's limbs so they could fit together on McCree's single bed.

At around three in the morning, Hanzo said, across the small breath of a gap between them, "I don't feel like I deserve to be this happy."

McCree reached through the dark and put a hand on the side of Hanzo's neck. Hanzo leaned into the touch, like he couldn’t help himself.

"You do," McCree said. "Because I say so."

He heard Hanzo give a snort. "Flawless reasoning, McCree."

"Jesse."

"Flawless reasoning, Jesse," Hanzo amended. He wriggled closer, accidentally shoving the crown of his head against McCree's chin. The two of them hissed, recoiling in the dark. "Sorry," Hanzo said. "I don't know how I keep doing that." He started to draw away. 

McCree made a low humming sound and pulled him close once again. "None of that now," McCree said sleepily. "I forgive you. So you should too."

They drifted off as easily as falling.

-

On Sunday, they slept in.

When McCree opened his eyes, he found sunlight already streaming in through his window. He watched the dust motes dance in the air for a minute, wondering why he was so absorbed by the sight—until he realized that it was the first time he'd woken up to sunlight in years.

Goodbye, pre-dawn routine, McCree thought.

Hanzo shifted in his sleep and McCree stilled.

Sometime during the night, Hanzo had ended up sprawled across McCree's chest—one cheek crushed against his shirt, both arms wrapped octopus-like around his waist. 

McCree felt the exact moment that Hanzo woke up. He twitched, instantly tensed up all over, then relaxed just as quickly once he remembered where he was.

"What time is it?" Hanzo yawned. 

"Almost noon, I think." Judging by the length of the shadows in the room.

Hanzo froze, then sat up so quickly that McCree nearly fell off the bed. "What?" He suddenly seemed to notice that the golden light was coming in from outside.

McCree suppressed a grin when Hanzo stared blankly at the dust motes, just as transfixed as he had been. 

"I haven’t woken up this late since…" Hanzo frowned and didn't even bother finishing his sentence. "I don’t understand. What happened last night?"

McCree smirked. "Well—" he drawled.

"Actually, don't answer that question." Hanzo scowled as McCree burst out laughing, making the bed tremble with the force of it.

"Hope that doesn't mean you forgot everything," McCree said, waggling his eyebrows. "Do you need a reminder? Because I'd be more than happy to—" He wheezed as Hanzo dug an elbow into his gut.

"Cease your chattering." Hanzo rubbed his eyes and sighed. "We should get up."

"Why?" he asked—then spluttered at the sudden return of Hanzo's elbow. "No, wait—I'm serious. There's nothing important to do today. We’re off-duty. Why don't we just stay in bed all day?"

Hanzo looked exasperated. "Because we need to train? To shower? To _eat_?"

McCree settled back comfortably on his pillow and raised his eyebrows. "Come back to bed," he said simply.

Hanzo sighed again. He stared at the dust motes, then back at McCree.

"I must have lost my mind," he grumbled, as he laid his head back down on McCree's chest and closed his eyes. 

McCree sighed happily. "Sweet dreams, Hanzo."

**Author's Note:**

> another entry into the strange stories that come to me in the middle of the night
> 
> unbetaed, critique always welcome and feedback always appreciated 
> 
> see ya next time, folks


End file.
